Still a Brat
by Star2717
Summary: Willow likes me. She doesn't love me, but she likes me, and I can deal with that.


            A/N:  Ok, I really owe a big thanks to Honor H for this one.  If you haven't read her Buffy fic, OBAFU, then you really don't know what you're missing.  All of her stuff is top notch, but I am absolutely hooked on OBAFU.  She suggested that any fanfic writer would probably benefit from her "assignment:" Write a piece that focuses on your least favorite character, showing him/her in a positive light.  Well, most hated character was easy enough for me to figure out.  I hate, hate, HATE Kennedy.  It took me awhile, but I think I finally have something that might be worth reading.  Even if you hate Kennedy, give it a try.  Any feedback is appreciated – praise, criticism, flames, whatever you want to dump on me.  Ok, on with the story.  Oh, and Honor H, if you're out there, thanks for being such an inspiration.

"I'm a brat."  That's what I told Willow.  I was explaining to her why I get what I want.  I want Willow; I get Willow.  I'm a brat, and brats get what they want.  Only I think I've been running into a small problem.  Brats, by nature, get what they want because they're spoiled.  And when you're spoiled – well, you get what you want because everyone likes you.  That last part – where everyone likes me – is rapidly becoming my problem.

Willow likes me.  She doesn't love me, but she likes me, and I can deal with that.  What I can't deal with is the scarlet letter (or letters) that Willow has apparently tattooed on my forehead in invisible ink: NOT TARA.  Apparently, this ink only becomes visible when I'm with Willow: when Buffy sees me hold her hand, or when Xander catches us kissing, or when I can feel Dawn's eyes boring into my back as I stroke Willow's hair.  I see what's in their eyes.  She's not Tara.  She'll never be Tara.  

I know! I want to scream, every time I catch their guilty glances.  My hair is darker.  I'm skinnier.  I'm a potential, not a witch.  I hate to thumb wrestle.  I have a tongue ring.  My name is Kennedy; and goddammit, it's not my fault that Tara is dead.  And it's not my fault that the only Willow I know is a happy, timid redhead, not some black haired crazy who tried to end the world.  I'm not a Scooby.  I don't know Xander and Buffy and Anya as if they are my kin.  I can't remember the good old days.  I know all this.  But no matter what I do, how hard I try; I know that none of Willow's friends see me as Kennedy.  They see me as That Girl Trying to Replace Tara.  I don't care what they think.  Really.  I don't.  I just – I just wish that Willow didn't look at me and see Not Tara, too.

I never told anyone about the time Willow said her name.  Who am I going to tell?  Vi?  Rona?  I ruined any chance of being friends with them by dating Willow.  Suddenly, I was the Teacher's Pet, the one who got excluded from the circle of gossip.  And I know they all blame me for Chloe's death.  How can they not when even I blame myself?  Like I said, none of them are my friends.  I could never confide in them the heartbreak I felt when I heard my girlfriend cry out the name of her dead lover.

It was one of the first nights we…  Well, one of our first nights as a couple.  I remember so vividly that I was trying to act more suave and sophisticated, trying to hide from Willow how scared I was that I wasn't good enough for her.  And of course, Willow told me that I was beautiful, perfect, and every other wonderful thing.  We were in bed, limbs all over the place.  She was so beautiful, and she made me beautiful just by being around her.  We were almost there; I could feel it.  And right at the moment, Willow rolled on top of me, stared me right in the eye, let out a slow breath and moaned. 

"Tara…" If I hadn't been staring into her eyes, focused on every movement in her body, I probably wouldn't even have noticed.  Lord knows I was a little caught up in the moment to really be hearing words coherently.  But Willow froze even before the word had finished leaving her mouth.  I froze too, the romance of our situation rapidly declining as Willow sat up in the bed, covering her mouth in shock and horror.

"Oh god.  Oh god.  Kennedy, oh god, I'm so sorry, Kennedy, please, oh god, oh god, oh god…" Willow's ramblings rapidly dissolved into tears.  I leaned forward and pulled her towards me, cradling her face against my chest and covering her forehead with kisses.

"Shhh, baby, it's ok.  I'm right here.  You don't have to apologize.  Just – it's ok, go ahead and cry.  I'm here."  We stayed like that for a long time, before Willow finally cried herself to sleep.

The next day, both of us acted like it had never happened.  Willow was even more affectionate than usual, holding my hand all around the house, sneaking a quick kiss in between training sessions.  I smiled, teased, and bratted as usual, acting as if nothing had happened.  But that night, sitting alone in my bed while Willow attended the regular "Core Scooby Evening" at Xander's; it was my turn to cry.  I grabbed my journal and wrote the same phrase, again and again, over and over, until I was so exhausted from the sobs racking my body that I couldn't hold a pen anymore.  I woke up the next morning, still clutching my journal, and saw that I had written the same thing for page after page: I am not Tara.  I am not Tara.  I am not Tara.

I hope I'm still a brat.

So?  Did you hate it?  Love it?  Feel absolutely nothing towards it?  Any way you felt, I would love to hear about it.  Please click that little review button and tell me what you thought.  Thanks for taking time to read my fic!

~~~~Betsy

P.S.  For those of you ready to hunt me down and kill me, an update on Not Myself is coming.  I promise to you that there will be a new chapter before Halloween.  I promise!!!!


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